Medical
by AssassinOfRome
Summary: "Are you feeling alright, matey? You look a little on the peaky side." Strange turned to his friend, who was practically folded up in his chair. The room was heaving with police officers, all waiting for their annual medical check. Everyone from the lowliest constable to Mr Bright himself had to be tested, and it made for a very stuffy waiting room. Morse/Strange, for once!


"Are you feeling alright, matey? You look a little on the peaky side." Strange turned to his friend, who was practically folded up in his chair. The room was heaving with police officers, all waiting for their annual medical check. Everyone from the lowliest constable to Mr Bright himself had to be tested, and it made for a very stuffy waiting room. Despite the heat, Morse's cheeks were still as white as snow, and he curled in on himself even more, if that were possible. He didn't say anything, didn't even glance at the edition of the Times that Strange had bought with him. He just buried his face in his hands so only the tufts of his hair showed. If he didn't look ready to keel over, Strange would have thought it was darling.

Morse was going to be one of the last officers to be examined, by the look of things. Strange, and his other police constables, had been finished off earlier that morning, to get the bulk of patients out of the way. The doctor had said nothing unexpected; everything in perfect working order, maybe lay off the beer. Both of them knew that the constable would never take his advice; drinking was to be expected of a police officer. Not doing so would make him look like a bit of a pansy.

The longer his colleague was silent for, the more Strange began to worry. It was like a theory, looping around half-baked worry. Was Morse suffering from the stuffy heat of the over full room? There was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. Should they go outside, get a drink, go somewhere quiet? Should he try to distract the detective or should they stay in silence? Should he ask him questions for the sergeants exam, like they did in the pub? No. Morse wouldn't appreciate that; he didn't even like it when he was a bit tipsy, let alone sober.

Strange was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he missed the nervous wriggling of his colleague. He was only alerted to Morse's movement when the detective looked up from the spot on the floor that he'd been staring at for the past ten minutes. Strange locked onto a pair of soft blue eyes, which began boring into his own. They were beautiful; the same colour as the sky on a warm summer's day. He never wanted this moment to end. But all too soon Morse looked away, eyes back on his shoes.

"I've just don't like medical examinations, alright? Stop your worrying." Strange nodded sagely for a few minutes before curiosity got the better of him.

"Why? You must have had them when you were in the army."

Morse sighed, turning to face his companion with a look of pure contempt.

"I wasn't in the army, Strange, I worked as a signals clerk. And... I don't know. They always make me feel... odd."

"Is it because of them taking blood? I know you're a bit funny about stuff like that."

"True, that does... put me off, but I don't like... undressing. Don't like them judging me like that."

"S'all part of life, matey. We just have to deal with some things. At least these people are professionals."

Morse nodded at that, looking a little relieved. For a while, they chatted about various things; the weather, cases, their colleagues, football. The sandy-haired detective seemed to have a wide-eyed innocence to the sport; he didn't even know who Peter Baker was! Strange tried not to smile too fondly when Morse's nose wrinkled in confusion and his big doe eyes blinked up at him. He tried to savour that gaze, to pretend it was loving instead of friendly. Morse opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by a cold, almost mechanical voice chiming;

"Morse, Endeavour."

A slightly muted roar of laughter erupted upon finally hearing Morse's forename. The detective scowled a little, and stood. He still looked a little nervous, so Strange gave what he could reach of his arm a friendly pat.

"Don't worry, matey; you'll be fine. It's over quicker than you think."

Morse gave him a small smile, before entering the office. With his only friend gone, it struck Strange for the first time how loud it was in the waiting room. There was awful amounts of chat. Jakes and his mates were sat by the window, smoking and playing cards. If looks could kill, the receptionist would have murdered them all several times. What a case that would be! Morse would adore it; would dart around the station in his excitement; would create and dismiss any number of possible outcomes with that vast brain of his; would smile that special smile he saved for when he felt truly satisfied. A treacherous part of Strange's mind wondered if he wore that same smile after sex...

After a quick glance through the paper (not his typical reading material; he preferred The Mirror) and a few minutes of thumb twiddling and toe-tapping, Strange was bored out of his skull. His stomach rumbled, reminding breakfast had been over five hours ago, and that he'd completely missed lunch. Unlike Thursday, Strange didn't have a wife at home to make him sandwiches. In fact, the relatively small house where he lived wasn't quite as homely as the well-trimmed garden made it look. It felt awfully empty, especially at night, when the boiler was shutting down and every floorboard creaked. He wouldn't have minded if he had someone to share it with, but his bed was always cold and far too spacious for his liking.

The bustle of the room showed no signs of slowing, and as far as the constable could tell, no-one was sparing him even the slightest glance. So, of course, no-one would notice if he were to sneak a glance through the glass of the doctor's office. The angle was a bit awkward, and it took a few seconds for him to notice his friend hunched over, sat up on the examining table. Morse was only in his underwear, and he felt his cheeks heat as he stared at the other man's chest.

The first thing that struck him was the sheer amount of freckles on his college's body. If Strange was feeling particularly poetic, he'd think that the freckles looked like various constellations, glittering up in the starry sky. But he wasn't, so thought that Morse had a lot of freckles, a bit like a Dalmatian.

Next he noticed just how thin Morse was. His friend has always been lean, but Strange would have never believed just how skinny he was. There was not an ounce of fat on him; no padding for his hips or ribs. His stomach didn't curve outwards like Strange's, nor did his thighs brush. It was almost enviable, but inevitably unhealthy.

Morse's face was animated as he spoke to the doctor on duty. Strange noted that it was Dr Middleman, a nice enough man who had treated him and his siblings when they were smaller. He used to have a bit of a crush on him; that's how he found out about his... problem... His hair, now grey, was still elegant in its waviness.

Shaking his head, he turned his gaze back to his friend. Morse looked ever so young, face not yet creased by worry, but not lined with happiness either. He was a very private man, but Strange knew that his life hadn't been a happy one. After a few too many pints (Strange's treat, of course, the silly git could never remember whose round it was) after work, he'd started to mention a woman named Gwen, who by all accounts, sounded absolutely foul. Some of the things she'd said... they were unforgivable.

He'd also mentioned a woman named Susan. Or was it Wendy? Morse had been slurring a bit then, not that he'd had that much to drink. It had only been... seven pints? OK, maybe that was a little much, but Strange had been addicted to the pretty blush that spread over Morse's cheeks when he sipped his beer. Given the obvious hangover he'd had the next morning, Strange didn't think his friend would be drinking like that again for a long time.

Glancing at his watch as a form of cover, Strange sighed. Morse spoke little of his romantic attachments, but every one of them seemed to be with a woman. No men, unlike Strange. Maybe he didn't swing that way? The police constable would never know; plucking up the courage to ask was way above his bravery limit. He'd just have to watch as the object of his attractions throw himself at countless women as they punched him in the heart. And possibly the stomach, depending how crass he'd been with his flirting. Social skills were not something Morse excelled at.

Strange ran his eyes down Morse's frame. As well as freckles, there was the silver shimmer of old scars. Strange recognised a few of them; the smooth slash wound on his belly, the puckered bullet wound on his thigh, the jagged cut from where he'd leapt over a fence and landed in broken glass. Morse was a bit prone to accidents on the job, but he never complained about them. Strange respected him for that. However, some of Morse's scars were a little less familiar. The tops of his biceps and thighs seemed to be littered with tiny white lines. Strange frowned. What on Earth could they be from? Acne maybe?

Pushing the thought to the back of his mind, Strange focused his attention on a certain part of Morse's anatomy. He felt his whole face heat up, and knew he was blushing. Thank God no-one was looking. It wasn't a bad size, but Morse definitely needed some new underwear. The once black of the boxer shorts had faded into a dark grey, and the waist had obviously been taken in by an inexperienced hand.

With a shake of the head, Strange finished his journey at Morse's feet, which were a little smaller than he'd imagined they'd be. However, he did have to stop himself from awing. Morse, despite his somewhat cold personality and strict upbringing, still swung his legs like a child as the doctor pottered around the office.

Strange could see the session was coming to an end, so hesitantly tugged his eyes away from the glass. He timed it well enough to receive a scowl from Jakes, who was taking a long drag of his cigarette. Picking up the paper, he scanned through, looking up when he heard the door open.

"How'd you fare?" Strange asked, once Morse had emerged. He was shaking a little; a mere tremor in his hands, but enough for a close friend to notice. The detective shrugged, flicking a bit of hair out of his eyes in a way that should have seemed clumsy rather than attractive.

"Relatively good. I'm at risk of heart defects because of my father, but everything seems clear so far. And he said I need to put on a bit of weight, especially as it's almost winter. Not like I'm going to be hibernating any time soon."

"Come on then, matey." He grinned, handing Morse his coat. The heavy grey material was surprisingly soft. Morse chuckled, eyes lighting up slightly. His laugh was a little cracked, like he hadn't used it in a long time. Strange felt his heart beat faster at the merry sound. A small part of him wished he could hear it more often.

"Why? Is the pub calling?"

"Not tonight, Morse. I'm taking you out for dinner. My treat, don't you worry. How does fish and chips sound? I'm dying for a bit of cod."

The detective's expression had melted from hesitant happiness to downright confusion. His eyebrows rose, as he tugged on his coat.

"Since when do we do that?"

Since you clearly need someone to look after you?

Since I want to be the one to do it?

Since you stole my heart, you selfish git?

But none of these were audible to a room full of coppers. So he gave a small smile and settled for,

"Well, you look like you could do with it."


End file.
